RingRing
by ThingsThatNeedThings
Summary: 'BBC Sherlock' random fanfiction using music. Ever wondered what Sherlock's ringtone for John is? Lestrade's for Mycroft? Anderson's default? Enjoy.


**Ring-Ring**

(BBC Sherlock)

John had never been one for phones. He understood the importance of communication, of course, but he didn't want to be able to tell his phone to wank him off while playing Doodle Jump and texting a sex line. It just baffled him – every idiotic app and "new improvement" that he simply didn't need only existed to irritate him. Harry's phone infuriated him more than helped him, not only because it was far too technical but because of the bloody annoying texts from Mycroft – constantly. "How is my brother this week? – MH", "Is he still not sleeping? – MH", "Are you sure you're not a couple? – MH"…

His fingers slipped over the letters as he attempted to type, eventually resulting in gibberish. Too angry to change it into proper English, he hit the send button and growled to himself. "Sodding phones, sodding texting, why can we just talk?" he fumed.

"Bored," Sherlock replied, as his phone pinged simple and he casually scanned over John's text with disdain. "Your inefficient fingers would imply anger, overwhelming passion, or sexual arousal."

John clenched his teeth and hissed a little. "Which do you think?"

Sherlock just blinked a few times, and then, "Well, John-"

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just…" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Just shut up."

Suddenly John's phone rang. He jerked and dropped it to the floor, scrabbling to get it and stop his ringtone, before Sherlock – screw it, Sherlock already knew, one way or another, John decided.

"_I just called to say I love you, I just called to say how much I care… I just called to say I love you, and I mean it from the bottom of my heart…_"

Sherlock just smirked.

John picked up the phone. "You're a twat, sometimes, y'know." He hung up.

Sherlock genuinely looked hurt. Just then his phone rang.

"_Doctor, doctor, gimme the news, I've got a bad case of loving you… No pill's gonna cure my ill, I've got a bad case of loving you…_"

His cheeks flushed a little. "Shut up."

Sherlock adored his phone. His Blackberry was quick, small, efficient, easy but also compact in it's technology. It was almost as fast as his mind. It helped him when there was a gap in his knowledge – which was rare (besides the solar system, as John was constantly reminding him about) – and that allowed him to be a step ahead, all the time. He made notes if need be. He texted quicker than anyone, including teenage girls. It was rare that he actually phoned anyone. Mainly because he didn't want to waste time listening to them stammer and yammer, and he didn't want all that "chatting" waste of time to get in the way – such as "hey, how are you?" because Sherlock always had the same answer. He was born. That is how he came to be. How he was now was a mixture of breathing and bodily functions. And, dare he admit it, John. But apparently answering "John" to "how are you?" isn't a valid answer.

Just then Lestrade strode in from seemingly nowhere and held up his phone. "You called me?" he asked, sounding more than a little anxious. Phone calls to him always meant danger, or trouble, or Sherlock, in which case meant both danger and trouble.

"Nope," Sherlock replied, a little territorially. "You can't just come in here."

"Police business," he shrugged it off. "And if you didn't phone… Bloody hell, this thing. I need a new one. Never can keep up with the trends in mobiles, can you?"

"Can _one_," Sherlock corrected quietly, but either they didn't hear him or they ignored him.

"Hang on, let me call you," John suggested, cringing as he stabbed at the keypad until 'Lestrade' glared at him from the screen. He pressed the green button and waited.

"_My whole family thinks I'm gay, I guess it's always been that way, maybe it's the way that I walk that makes people think I like – boys…_"

John scowled. "What's that ringtone supposed to imply?" he hissed defensively.

"Oh, uh, it's just my standard ringtone, nothing personal." Greg was a terrible liar, even John could deduce it. Sherlock snickered slightly. John shot him a glance. "At least it receives calls…" he mused, changing the subjects. "Let me check it dials…"

"_Tell me why I don't like Mondays, tell me why I don't like Mondays, tell me why I don't like Mondays, I wanna shoot the whole day down…_"

Sherlock grinned evilly. "Just how I feel when you call. Nothing personal."

Donavon appeared at the door. "Detective – is anything going on here? Freak trying to do experiments on you?"

"Of a sort," Lestrade replied, somewhat burnt but that last comment. "Just phone talk."

"You all have personal ringtones?"

When everyone said 'yes' John glared at Lestrade again, just to see if he'd try to cover his lie. He didn't.

"Let's see what the Freak set for me." Donavon instantly hit #666 and 'Freak' dialled. Why she had his number in the first place nobody could quite fathom.

"666 isn't even the number of the devil," Sherlock grumbled, somewhat amused by common ignorance. "616 is the number of the _beast_."

"And you are one," Donavon attempted a quick come-back, but just left John gulping in agreement.

"_So fuck you, fuck you very, very much, 'cause we hate what you do and we hate your whole crew so please don't stay in touch…_"

Donavon was not amused, but before she could launch into a rant about how insane he was or whatever she was trying to convince people, another ringtone blared out.

"_Oh! Do you know what you got into? Can you handle what I'm about to do? 'Cause it's about to get rough for you, I'm here for your entertainment…_"

"Sorry, that's uh…" Greg stammered. Donavon was quick to peek at the caller ID. She frowned, rubbed her eyes, and shook her head, her jaw slightly dropped.

"I thought you had better taste than Freak's brother," she managed at last.

John giggled a little. Mycroft had been lonely for so long, and now that Greg had come along… Well, let's just say some of the texts John received _by accident _were hilariously disturbing. At least they were better than the accusations of God-knows-what-creepy-shit-Mycroft-thought-Sherlock-and-John-were-into.

John particularly remembered:

"So what about lemons? – MH"

"Fuck off."

"I bet you two will. – MH"

"Surely lemons would hurt like hell…"

"You should try it. – MH"

"… Piss off."

"Laugh Out Loud! – MH"

John still to this day wasn't entirely sure what he had meant by lemons. He had assumed, and didn't dare ask for an explanation. Or how Mycroft even knew about the goddamn lemons.

"Hey there," Greg answered the phone, his voice suddenly rising about an octave as he beamed widely. "Tonight? Sure. … Yes. You're spying on me? … Oh right, on Sherlock. … Yes, I thought he called me. It's this phone. Hey, would it be too much to ask- … So you know that too. … … … Don't tell _anyone_ about that, alright? I swear, Crofty, I will not go easy on you next time…"

Sherlock glanced awkwardly to John, and mouthed, "Crofty?"

John just shrugged.

"Okay, yes, I'll be there. … Uh yeah, I love you too kbye."

Anderson floundering into the room. John rolled his eyes at the sudden number of people casually admitting themselves into the apartment. But then curiosity hit him. Anderson's phone was old, _really _old, so wouldn't have personal ringtones available. He didn't have John's number anyway, so John quickly dialled the number and hit the call button.

(Sherlock had gotten all the numbers of the Scotland Yard 'gang' through various means, intending on using them in case he needed to blackmail someone. Typical Sherlock.)

"_Barney is a dinosaur from our imagination-_"

Anderson threw his phone down the stairs before the ringtone could continue.


End file.
